“We have a duty to report, Mrs. Vance,” the reporter said. “Especially when there is a potential child welfare issue involving a prominent local family.”

“They are fake,” I said, my voice steady despite the trembling in my knees. “Send them to me. Let me see what you have first.”

“I can send the PDF to your personal email,” he said. “But I need a statement within the hour.”

The line went dead before I could reply.

I stood in the kitchen, the wind rattling the glass panes of the penthouse terrace.

A cold, grey rain was starting to fall over the city streets below.

My phone buzzed with an incoming email notification.

The sender was an encrypted address, forwarded by the reporter.

I opened the attachment.

The first page was a forged letterhead from the clinic where I had my routine prenatal checkups.

Underneath it were pages of typed notes.

“Patient exhibits severe paranoid delusions regarding her spouse,” the document read.

“Unfit for unsupervised custody of the infant due to escalating psychological distress.”

The handwriting at the bottom was a poor imitation of my obstetrician, Dr. Aris.